Earendel at Epiphany

BL Yates Thompson 3, f. 93v

For the Feast of the Epiphany, here's a curiosity for you. There are lots of medieval carols about the Epiphany ('Twelfth Day', as it was usually called in the Middle Ages) - I posted two last year, and you'll find more under this tag. This one, however, is a medieval pastiche - a carol written in a version of Middle English, with a bit of Old English thrown in, and published in 1899. 

'Eala Earendel

Engla beorhtast.'

I. They came three Kings who rode apace,

To Bethlem town by God's good grace:

Hail Earendel,

Brightest of Angels!

Pardie! It was a duteous thing,

Wise men to worship childë King:

Godlight be with us,

Hail Earendel!

II. They gave Him gifts of far-brought things,

Of Recells, Myrrh, and Gold of Kings.

Hail Earendel,

Brightest of Angels!

And setten there in strawy tent,

Their mystic signs of Orient:

Godlight be with us,

Hail Earendel!

III. The Gold and Frankincense and Myrrh

For King, for Priest, for digne Martyr.

Hail Earendel,

Brightest of Angels!

Upon the great Good Friday morn

Is't Crown of Gold or Crown of Thorn?

Godlight be with us,

Hail Earendel!

IV. From Calvary's Tree the Priestly hands

Are stretched in blessing o'er the lands:

Hail Earendel,

Brightest of Angels!

In Garden tomb His tired limbs sleep.

Bring Myrrh and Spices, Vigil keep:

Godlight be with us,

Hail Earendel!

V. O hymn we then these Orient Kings,

Who brought for Him their offerings:

Hail Earendel,

Brightest of Angels!

And grant in Holy Mystery

Ourselves His Sacrifice may be.

Godlight be with us,

Hail Earendel!

This poem is by Charles William Stubbs (1845-1912), who at the time it was published was Dean of Ely. The poem was included in his book Bryhtnoth's Prayer and Other Poems, which among other things features a number of poems inspired by medieval topics, especially relating to the Anglo-Saxon history of Ely. One is his 'Carol of King Canute', a Christmas carol based on a short verse which the 12th-century Liber Eliensis claims Cnut composed when visiting the abbey. Another poem on an Ely theme is inspired by the Old English poem The Battle of Maldon, whose fallen hero, Byrhtnoth, was buried at Ely. Here's a taste of Stubbs' take on that:

This was his death cry,

Bryhtnoth the Ealdorman,

When to the earth at last

Fell from his failing hand

Sword of the mighty hilt...

Could he no longer then

Fast on his feet stand,

Bryhtnoth the Ealdorman;

Looked he to Heaven's King,

Meter of meeds:

“Thanks be to Thee, God, Ruler of nations,

For all the joy of life

Winsome and wealthful-

Bairns' love and wife's love,

Heart-trust of comrades,

War-weal and hearth’s-gear -

All I have here below

Fared for or gotten.

Now, oh my Maker mild,

Most need have I that Thou

Good speed my ghost:

Yea, that my soul to Thee safely may journey,

Safe to Thy Kingdom, Lord of the angels.”

Died then Earl Bryhtnoth

There by the Panta stream,

Slain in the battle, by

Maldon Blackwater.

Monks of the minster,

Monks of Saint Ætheldryht,

Thanes of the White Christ,

Brought him to Ely

Rowed they the death barge,

Down the long water-street,

Shimmering in moonlight;

Cold blew the night wind,

O'er the wan water: 

Far in the sedge reeds

Boomed the wild bittern;

High on the wall tower

Blickered the beacon.

If you know The Battle of Maldon you'll recognise some echoes of the poem here, but it's much augmented by faux-medieval archaisms in fine Victorian style! Similarly, Stubbs' Epiphany poem makes use of a refrain from a real Old English poem, part of the Advent Lyrics based on the O Antiphons:

Eala earendel, engla beorhtast,

ofer middangeard monnum sended...

O Earendel, brightest of angels,

sent to mankind over middle-earth...

In that poem 'Earendel' is used as a title for Christ, equivalent to the Latin 'O Oriens' ('O Dayspring'), the antiphon sung on the day of the winter solstice. Stubbs, however, accompanies his poem with a note saying that Earendel is 'the mythical name of the Star of Bethlehem'. I couldn't say where he got that idea, but 'Earendel' is used of different kinds of light in Old English and related languages - of a star, but also of the radiance of the sun and the first gleam of the dawn. And engla beorhtast, 'brightest of angels', really means 'brightest of messengers' - which the Star of Bethlehem was, of course. If the idea is that the Star to which the carol appeals is also Christ himself, 'Godlight', it's not so far from the Old English poem.

Stubbs also includes a note on the word 'recells', an Old English word for 'incense', pointing out where you can find it in an Anglo-Saxon translation of the Gospels. Apart from these bits of Anglo-Saxondom, though, much of the poem is written in an imitation of Middle English - 'Pardie!', 'childë King', and so on.

'The Carol of King Canute' was set to music by T. Tertius Noble, who was organist of Ely Cathedral and also Stubbs' son-in-law. (Though it's through Benjamin Britten's setting that it's perhaps better-known.) Noble also set this 'Carol of the Star', in a slightly amended version. And look, it's even on Youtube:

I learn from this wonderful website that after Stubbs became Bishop of Truro, the carol was performed at his cathedral's 'Festival of Lessons and Carols' in 1911 - Truro being the place where services of 'Nine Lessons and Carols' first originated at the end of the 19th century.

That same winter, 1911, the young Tolkien had just finished his first term at Oxford. A year or two later, in the course of his studies, he stumbled across the Old English 'Earendel' poem, and its first lines had a remarkable effect on him:

I felt a curious thrill, as if something had stirred in me, half wakened by sleep. There was something very remote and strange and beautiful behind those words, if I could grasp it, far beyond ancient English.

Tolkien adopted Earendel into his own growing imaginative cosmos, as a mariner 'who launched his ship like a bright spark from the havens of the Sun... a herald star, and a sign of hope to men'. He later called the Old English poem 'rapturous words from which ultimately sprang the whole of my mythology'. His sense that there was something 'very remote and strange' about the words eala Earendel, engla beorhtast is one of those instincts no one can explain. Why these lines more than any other? What moved Stubbs to make them the basis of his Epiphany carol? No one really knows what 'Earendel' means, and yet perhaps it draws the imagination all the more for that, as the Star of Bethlehem drew the Magi on their long and weary way. Such is the magic of mystery, of words half-understood - of a glimpse of Godlight.

Bodleian MS. Douce d. 19

An Advent Carol: O Orient Light

Annunciation (BL Add. 29433, f. 20)

Here's an Advent poem from a collection of carols which was compiled by James Ryman, Franciscan friar of Canterbury, at the very end of the fifteenth century. I've often posted carols from Ryman's extensive collection (his manuscript contains more than 150 carols, all accessible here), and they're suitable for all seasons for the year. Far from being for Christmas alone, medieval carols could be very diverse in their themes, even if you stick, as Ryman does, to sacred rather than secular topics; he does have a good number of Christmas carols, but also includes songs about the Passion, the Virgin Mary, the Trinity, his order's founder St Francis, and general moral themes of death and transience - much more varied than what we would think of as carol fare today. He has carol versions of a number of Latin hymns, such as the Advent hymns Conditor alme siderum and Vox clara, which act as a good example of how these Latin liturgical texts could serve as inspiration for vernacular poetry. And even within his Christmas material, there's considerable variation in tone: some of his carols are light-hearted - the cheeky 'Farewell Advent, Christmas is come!' is a particular highlight - while others are theologically sophisticated ('Behold and see') or poignant and sombre ('Mary hath borne alone').

This one drew my eye for its spirited rhyme scheme - one rhyme per stanza, repeated six times. It's a lively little bit of virtuosity, just for the joy of it. Since the language is pretty straightforward this is in modern spelling; here's a link to the Middle English.

O Christe, rex gentium,
O vita viventium.

O orient light shining most bright,
O son of right, adown thou light [i.e. alight from above]
And by thy might now give us light,
O Christe rex gentium.

O Saviour, most of honour,
Come from thy tower, cease our dolour
Both day and hour waiting succour,
O vita viventium.

O we in pain would, in certain, [i.e. we in pain truly desire]
Thou wouldst refrain, Lord, and restrain
Thine hand again of might and main,
O Christe, rex gentium.

O Jesse root, most sweet and sote, [lovely]
In rind and root most full of bote, [healing]
To us be bote, bound hand and foot,
O vita viventium.

O Assuere, prince without peer,
Come from thy sphere, to us draw near;
Our prayer hear, O Lord most dear,
O Christe, rex gentium.

O corner stone, that makest both one,
Hear our great moan and grant our bone [prayer]
Come down anon, save us each one,
O vita viventium.

O prince of peace, our bond release,
Our woe thou cease, and grant us peace
In bliss endless, that shall not cease,
O Christe, rex gentium.

O king of might and son of right,
O endless light so clear and bright,
Of thee a sight thou us behight, [promised]
O vita viventium.

This poem has no direct source as far as I know. but it seems to be loosely influenced by the O Antiphons, since some of the titles used here for Christ form part of that grouping of texts: Rex Gentium, Oriens, Root of Jesse. The sixth stanza also uses a phrase from the Rex Gentium antiphon, 'cornerstone that makes both one'. The form of the poem, with each verse beginning with an acclamation, 'O...', also echoes the antiphons, though it's an approach Ryman uses quite often elsewhere. In any case, the use of these texts is fairly free; there are several antiphons not alluded to here, they aren't in any particular order, and it took me a while even to spot the connection. There are lots of other things thrown in among them, including other Biblical allusions and a reference to 'Assuere', i.e. the king in the Book of Esther, which medieval Biblical interpreters took to be a story which prefigured the relationship between Mary, God and mankind. An erudite allusion for a carol, you might think, but it crops up pretty often in Ryman's collection!

My favourite verse, I think, is about the Root of Jesse:

O Jesse root, most sweet and sote,
In rind and root most full of bote,
To us be bote, bound hand and foot,
O vita viventium.

Modern interpretations of the O Antiphons seem to struggle a bit with the Root of Jesse image, partly because of hesitation about how it should best be rendered in English (you will sometimes hear instead 'Rod of Jesse' or 'Branch of Jesse' or similar variations, which don't all necessarily evoke 'plant'). I wonder if modern writers find it difficult to imagine a plant which is also a symbol of power, which can 'stand as a sign before the nations' and silence kings, as the antiphon imagines it (him) doing. But medieval poets were much more attuned than we are to religious imagery drawn from nature, including a rich and complex iconography of trees, flowers, and plants, and they were utterly familiar with the idea that plants could be healing, that the natural world was medicine to mankind and thus an analogy for Christ's redemptive work.

And so it is in this verse. 'Sweet and sote' is one of those alliterative doublets medieval English poets were very fond of, both in the Anglo-Saxon period and long after (another example which occurs in the third verse here, 'might and main', is still in use today). As is often the case, the meaning of the two words is almost synonymous; both words here basically mean 'sweet', though the first refers more to flavour and the second to fragrance. The Root of Jesse is imagined as a plant which both tastes and smells delectable, giving forth its sweetness like a breath of air. But it's also a plant which can heal, bringing 'bote'. 'Bote' is a very common word in Middle English religious writing, and it has a broad range of meaning, which Ryman is playing with in these lines, to do with remedy, redemption, and repair. In the first case, 'in rind and root most full of bote', it's the healing power of a plant, as if the Root of Jesse is a health-giving herb from which you can chop up the bark and root and make medicine. In the second case, 'to us be bote', it shifts towards the meaning 'redemption, amends', for those who are 'bound hand and foot' in the captivity of sin. The verse is fully alive to the botanical reality of the word but also to the other metaphorical possibilities it offers, all the different kinds of 'salvation' it can encompass.

BL Add. 27697, f. 105v

The singing of the O Antiphons begins (according to medieval English practice) on 16 December, running up to Christmas Eve. I've written quite a lot here about medieval poems inspired by, translating, or meditating on these rich texts, and Ryman's poem is one more to add to the collection. If you'd like to read some others, here's a Middle English poem based on the antiphons which is roughly contemporary with Ryman, from the late fifteenth century, and two carols of a similar date, based on two of the antiphons. And then there's the much longer, more intricate, more sophisticated meditation on these texts by an anonymous Anglo-Saxon poet; for an introduction to that glorious poem start here, and work your way back through the series. I promise, there's nothing better you could be reading in the run-up to Christmas...

The Anglo-Saxon O Antiphons: O wondrous exchange

Grimbald Gospels, made in Canterbury in the 11th century, BL Add. 34890, f. 115

This is the last section of the Anglo-Saxon poem inspired by the Advent O Antiphons. It follows directly on from the section in my last post (comprising lines 416-439 of the poem), and is based on the antiphon 'O admirabile commercium', which has been set to music by a number of composers.

Eala hwæt, þæt is wræclic wrixl in wera life,
þætte moncynnes milde scyppend
onfeng æt fæmnan flæsc unwemme,
ond sio weres friga wiht ne cuþe,
ne þurh sæd ne cwom sigores agend
monnes ofer moldan; ac þæt wæs ma cræft
þonne hit eorðbuend ealle cuþan
þurh geryne, hu he, rodera þrim,
heofona heahfrea, helpe gefremede
monna cynne þurh his modor hrif.
Ond swa forðgongende folca nergend
his forgifnesse gumum to helpe
dæleð dogra gehwam, dryhten weoroda.
Forþon we hine domhwate dædum ond wordum
hergen holdlice. þæt is healic ræd
monna gehwylcum þe gemynd hafað,
þæt he symle oftost ond inlocast
ond geornlicost god weorþige.
He him þære lisse lean forgildeð,
se gehalgoda hælend sylfa,
efne in þam eðle þær he ær ne cwom,
in lifgendra londes wynne,
þær he gesælig siþþan eardað,
ealne widan feorh wunað butan ende. Amen.

O, that is a wondrous exchange in the life of men!
that mankind's merciful Creator
received from a maiden flesh unmarred,
and she had not known the love of a man,
nor did the Lord of Victory come
by the seed of a human on earth; but that was a more skilful art
than all earth-dwellers could comprehend
in its mystery, how he, glory of the skies,
high lord of the heavens, brought help
to the race of men through his mother's womb.
And coming forth thus, the Saviour of the peoples
deals out his forgiveness every day
to help mankind, Lord of hosts.
And so we, eager for glory, praise him
devotedly in deeds and words. That is high wisdom
in every person who has understanding,
ever to most often and most intently
and most eagerly praise God.
He will grant him the reward of grace,
the holy Saviour himself,
even in that homeland where he never before came,
in the joy of the land of the living,
where he will dwell, blessed, from thenceforth,
live forever without end. Amen.

Virgin and Child (BL Add. 49598, f. 22v)

What strikes me about this section of the poem is its ending, which offers something quite different from anything that has come before - in pronouns, if nothing else! (What could be more Christmassy than a bit of poetic grammar?) When human beings appear in Christ I, it's usually in the plural: either as the plural pronouns 'we' and 'us' or as multitudes of humanity, 'speech-bearers' and 'earth-dwellers'. Mary, exalted in her uniqueness, is an important exception; in the whole 439-line poem only Mary and Joseph (and on one occasion an angel) speak in the first person singular. Otherwise this poem is full of groups and collective voices, of human beings and of angels alike. But here, though we don't get a first-person voice, we get a brief closing image of a single person: someone þe gemynd hafað, 'who has gemynd'. I always find gemynd difficult to translate; it refers to the powers of the mind, particularly memory and recollection, but also intellect and wisdom. Any of those (and probably all of them) are possible connotations of gemynd here. I'm sometimes tempted to translate it with the relatively modern word mindfulness: in the sense people use that word today it suggests a collected power of conscious, intentional reflection, and that's rather what this poet is suggesting. This individual with whom the poem closes is anyone who chooses to gather up the powers of their mind, to reflect upon the mysterious 'exchange' of human flesh and holy spirit, and - here at the end of the poem - to hold in memory all that has come before. By doing so this 'he' (who is any of us) comes to an eternal joy which is expressed, oddly but rather beautifully, in a closing muddle of pronouns:

He him þære lisse lean forgildeð,
se gehalgoda hælend sylfa,
efne in þam eðle þær he ær ne cwom,
in lifgendra londes wynne,
þær he gesælig siþþan eardað,
ealne widan feorh wunað butan ende. 

He will grant him the reward of grace,
the holy Saviour himself,

even in that homeland where he never came before,
in the joy of the land of the living,
where he will dwell, blessed, from thenceforth,
live forever without end.

Who is 'he' here? Sometimes clearly Christ, and sometimes the mindful man, but the last, at least, might well be both. Perhaps they become one in that strange place, a final wonder from a poem full of marvels: a land where humans have never yet been, but which is their true home.

The Anglo-Saxon O Antiphons: O Beautiful Trinity

The Trinity, with Mary ('Ælfwine's Prayerbook', BL Cotton Titus D XXVII, f.75v)

In the last week before Christmas, I'd like to turn once again to the Anglo-Saxon poem inspired by the 'O Antiphons', texts sung at Vespers in the closing days of Advent. You may have sung or heard a version of these texts without knowing it, because some of them are the basis of the popular hymn 'O Come, O Come, Emmanuel'; and more than a thousand years ago an anonymous Anglo-Saxon poet used them as the basis for a dramatic, beautiful and allusive poem, which today is known as the Advent Lyrics or as Christ I.

This poem is the first text in the precious manuscript called the Exeter Book (currently to be seen sitting alongside three other major manuscripts of Old English poetry - together with many other items which testify to the richness of Anglo-Saxon literature and culture - in the British Library's Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms exhibition). It's an intricate poem, which repays close and attentive reading - meditative reading - and over the past few years I've translated and discussed different sections of the poem, one by one. Here are links to those posts, in the order in which they appear in the poem (not the order in which I, illogically, wrote them!):

O rex gentium (lines 1-17)
O clavis David (18-49)
O Jerusalem (50-70)
O virgo virginum (71-103)
O oriens (104-129)
O Emmanuel (130-163)
O Joseph (164-213)
O rex pacifice (214-274)
O mundi domina (275-347)
O caelorum domine (348-377)

Most commonly today seven O Antiphons are used, which are all addressed directly to Christ, but in medieval practice there were other antiphons grouped with these which meditate on other figures in the story of the Incarnation. In the Anglo-Saxon poem several of the sections focus on Mary, including a wonderful sequence I looked at in detail last year, as well as a dialogue between Mary and Joseph. There are also two - the last in the whole sequence - which are more general reflections on Advent themes, and I'll look at those this week.

First, a poem addressed to the Trinity (lines 378-415 of Christ I). It's not entirely clear which antiphon may have inspired this section, but as you read the translation you may spot allusions to some other, much more familiar, liturgical texts.

Eala seo wlitige, weorðmynda full,
heah ond halig, heofoncund þrynes,
brade geblissad geond brytenwongas
þa mid ryhte sculon reordberende,
earme eorðware ealle mægene
hergan healice, nu us hælend god
wærfæst onwrah þæt we hine witan moton.
Forþon hy, dædhwæte, dome geswiðde,
þæt soðfæste seraphinnes cynn,
uppe mid englum a bremende,
unaþreotendum þrymmum singað
ful healice hludan stefne,
fægre feor ond neah. Habbaþ folgoþa
cyst mid cyninge. Him þæt Crist forgeaf,
þæt hy motan his ætwiste eagum brucan
simle singales, swegle gehyrste,
weorðian waldend wide ond side,
ond mid hyra fiþrum frean ælmihtges
onsyne weardiað, ecan dryhtnes,
ond ymb þeodenstol þringað georne
hwylc hyra nehst mæge ussum nergende
flihte lacan friðgeardum in.
Lofiað leoflicne ond in leohte him
þa word cweþað, ond wuldriað
æþelne ordfruman ealra gesceafta:
Halig eart þu, halig, heahengla brego,
soð sigores frea, simle þu bist halig,
dryhtna dryhten! A þin dom wunað
eorðlic mid ældum in ælce tid
wide geweorþad. Þu eart weoroda god,
forþon þu gefyldest foldan ond rodoras,
wigendra hleo, wuldres þines,
helm alwihta. Sie þe in heannessum
ece hælo, ond in eorþan lof,
beorht mid beornum. Þu gebletsad leofa,
þe in dryhtnes noman dugeþum cwome
heanum to hroþre. Þe in heahþum sie
a butan ende ece herenis.

O beautiful, plenteous in honours,
high and holy, heavenly Trinity
blessed far abroad across the spacious plains,
who by right speech-bearers,
wretched earth-dwellers, should supremely praise
with all their power, now God, true to his pledge,
has revealed a Saviour to us, that we may know him.
And so the ones swift in action, endowed with glory,
that truth-fast race of seraphim
and the angels above, ever praising,
sing with untiring strength
on high with resounding voices,
most beautifully far and near. They have
a special office with the King: to them Christ granted
that they might enjoy his presence with their eyes,
forever without end, radiantly adorned,
worship the Ruler afar and wide,
and with their wings guard the face
of the Lord almighty, eternal God,
and eagerly throng around the prince's throne,
whichever of them can swoop in flight
nearest to our Saviour in those courts of peace.
They adore the Beloved One, and within the light
speak these words to him, and worship
the noble originator of all created things:
'Holy are you, holy, Prince of the high angels,
true Lord of Victories, forever are you holy,
Lord of Lords! Your glory will remain eternally
on earth among mortals in every age,
honoured far and wide. You are the God of hosts,
for you have filled earth and heaven
with your glory, Shelter of warriors,
Helm of all creatures. Eternal salvation
be to you on high, and on earth praise,
bright among men. Dearly blessed are you,
who come in the name of the Lord to the multitudes,
to be a comfort to the lowly. To you be eternal praise
in the heights, forever without end.'

The Trinity, surrounded by angels with multi-coloured wings

(from the Grimbald Gospels, made in Canterbury in the 11th century, BL Add. 34890, f. 114v)

This is a poem peopled by many beings: the Trinity, multitudes of angels, and all of us creatures here on earth. It opens with the Trinity - the Old English word for that is simply þrynes, 'threeness' - and a triplet of alliterating adjectives, a little trinity of words: heah, halig, heofoncund 'high, holy, heavenly'. The first seven lines reflect on this threeness and its relationship to us, the eorðware, 'earth-dwellers'. There's another beautiful triplet in the sixth line, which packs together all in one half-line us hælend god, 'us, Saviour, God' (i.e. '[to] us a Saviour God [has revealed]'). The syntax underlines the idea that the Saviour (hælend means 'healer, saviour' but is also the usual name for 'Jesus' in Old English) unites us and God - a meaningful bit of grammar it's difficult to reproduce in translation.

As often in Old English religious verse, human beings - you and me - are here called 'speech-bearers', reordberende. This is a word which might perhaps be familiar from The Dream of the Rood, and it's a kenning which defines human beings by their ability to speak; but Anglo-Saxon poets were interested too in all the other creatures who might also have, or be imagined to have, voices of their own. In The Dream of the Rood it's when human 'speech-bearers' are asleep that a solitary wakeful listener is able to hear the voice of Christ's cross, a tree speaking to him out of the silence and the darkness. And in this poem, the loudest voices are those of the angels - not us earth-dwelling reordberende. They are 'ever praising', singing unaþreotendum þrymmum 'with untiring strength', beautifully and with voices which resound through the universe.

Christ and angels (BL Harley 603, f. 69v)

The angels here are a busy flock of flying creatures, 'eagerly' pressing close to the throne of God:

hwylc hyra nehst mæge ussum nergende
flihte lacan friðgeardum in.

whichever of them can swoop in flight
nearest to our Saviour in those courts of peace.

This is a lovely moment: lacan is a verb which means (as one dictionary defines it) 'to swing, wave about, move as a ship does on the waves, as a bird does in its flight, as flames do'. It's a free and unfettered movement, full of life and energy. The angels are like a flock of birds in flight, a murmuration swooping with one intent and calling with one voice: halig, halig, halig. This is an unearthly sight, but in those heavenly courts the king they serve is not a stranger: he's called ussum nergende, 'our Saviour', and he belongs to the earthbound as well as to the angels.

Within the light of heaven, they sing the words which human voices can join - and do join every time the Mass is celebrated, cum angelis et archangelis. Here the poem is drawing on a number of Biblical and liturgical texts which allude to the angels, but especially on the Sanctus and Benedictus:

Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God of hosts.
Heaven and earth are full of your glory.
Hosanna in the highest.
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna in the highest.

The Old English poet is directly using this liturgical source (which he presumably knew in Latin) and yet in the middle of the passage translating the Sanctus, there are also two epithets which seem to belong to another world - non angeli, sed angli! God is called wigendra hleo, 'shelter of warriors', a phrase used in Anglo-Saxon poetry of kings and heroes; exactly the same phrase is used in Beowulf of Hrothgar, of the hero Sigemund, and of Beowulf himself. The word hleo means 'shelter' or 'refuge' (it survives in the word 'lee', as in 'leeward' or the lee of a hill - the side sheltered from the wind). It's paired here with the phrase helm alwihta, 'helm of all creatures', another kingly epithet. This too is a form of protection - a helm is a covering, a literal covering like a helmet or a metaphorical one like the 'helm' of night above the earth. So God is imagined as the lord and guardian and beloved leader of a heavenly troop, those flocks of angels, and of an earthly one too - the multitudes of the lowly, to whom comfort is coming.

 Christ with angels (BL Harley 603, f. 71)

The Anglo-Saxon O Antiphons: O Mundi Domina, the Door Between the Worlds

Wisdom depicted as a female figure enthroned (BL Cotton MS Cleopatra C VIII, f.36)

O mundi domina, regio ex semine orta,
ex tuo iam Christus processit alvo tamquam sponsus de thalamo;
hic iacet in praesepio qui et sidera regit.

O Lady of the World, sprung of royal race,
now Christ has come forth from your womb as a bridegroom from his chamber;
here in a manger lies he who rules the stars.

This is one of a number of antiphons which in medieval tradition were grouped with the seven 'O Antiphons' in the days leading up to Christmas, though they are addressed not to Christ but to other figures or ideas in the story of the Incarnation - in this case Mary, 'Lady of the World'. This text forms the basis, loosely speaking, for the section comprising lines 275-347 of the Anglo-Saxon Advent Lyrics. The Old English poem expands this brief antiphon into a much longer and more allusive meditation on Mary's role in Christ's entry into the world; this is the longest section of the poem (at 72 lines) and it follows immediately on from the second longest (the 60-line poem based on O rex pacifice). It feels like the work of a poet excited by his or her own poetry, wrestling with imagery which is difficult to conceptualise and challenging to put into words - yet determined to go on until it has yielded up everything it has to offer.

Eala þu mæra middangeardes
seo clæneste cwen ofer eorþan
þara þe gewurde to widan feore,
hu þec mid ryhte ealle reordberend
hatað ond secgað, hæleð geond foldan,
bliþe mode, þæt þu bryd sie
þæs selestan swegles bryttan.
Swylce þa hyhstan on heofonum eac,
Cristes þegnas, cweþað ond singað
þæt þu sie hlæfdige halgum meahtum
wuldorweorudes, ond worldcundra
hada under heofonum, ond helwara.
Forþon þu þæt ana ealra monna
geþohtest þrymlice, þristhycgende,
þæt þu þinne mægðhad meotude brohtes,
sealdes butan synnum. Nan swylc ne cwom
ænig oþer ofer ealle men,
bryd beaga hroden, þe þa beorhtan lac
to heofonhame hlutre mode
siþþan sende. Forðon heht sigores fruma
his heahbodan hider gefleogan
of his mægenþrymme ond þe meahta sped
snude cyðan, þæt þu sunu dryhtnes
þurh clæne gebyrd cennan sceolde
monnum to miltse, ond þe, Maria, forð
efne unwemme a gehealdan.
Eac we þæt gefrugnon, þæt gefyrn bi þe
soðfæst sægde sum woðbora
in ealddagum, Esaias,
þæt he wære gelæded þæt he lifes gesteald
in þam ecan ham eal sceawode.
Wlat þa swa wisfæst witga geond þeodland
oþþæt he gestarode þær gestaþelad wæs
æþelic ingong. Eal wæs gebunden
deoran since duru ormæte,
wundurclommum bewriþen. Wende swiðe
þæt ænig elda æfre ne meahte
swa fæstlice forescyttelsas
on ecnesse o inhebban,
oþþe ðæs ceasterhlides clustor onlucan,
ær him godes engel þurh glædne geþonc
þa wisan onwrah ond þæt word acwæð:
"Ic þe mæg secgan þæt soð gewearð
þæt ðas gyldnan gatu giet sume siþe
god sylf wile gæstes mægne
gefælsian, fæder ælmihtig,
ond þurh þa fæstan locu foldan neosan,
ond hio þonne æfter him ece stondað
simle singales swa beclysed
þæt nænig oþer, nymðe nergend god,
hy æfre ma eft onluceð."
Nu þæt is gefylled þæt se froda þa
mid eagum þær on wlatade.
þu eart þæt wealldor, þurh þe waldend frea
æne on þas eorðan ut siðade,
ond efne swa þec gemette, meahtum gehrodene,
clæne ond gecorene, Crist ælmihtig.
Swa ðe æfter him engla þeoden
eft unmæle ælces þinges
lioþucægan bileac, lifes brytta.
Iowa us nu þa are þe se engel þe,
godes spelboda, Gabriel brohte.
Huru þæs biddað burgsittende
þæt ðu þa frofre folcum cyðe,
þinre sylfre sunu. Siþþan we motan
anmodlice ealle hyhtan,
nu we on þæt bearn foran breostum stariað.
Geþinga us nu þristum wordum
þæt he us ne læte leng owihte
in þisse deaðdene gedwolan hyran,
ac þæt he usic geferge in fæder rice,
þær we sorglease siþþan motan
wunigan in wuldre mid weoroda god.

Anglo-Saxon ivory plaque of Christ and Mary (c.1000-20, V&A)

O glory of the world,
the purest queen of all those
who have ever existed across the earth!
How rightly all speech-bearing ones
throughout the world address you and say,
joyous in heart, that you should be the bride
of the best Gift-giver of the skies.
And so too those highest in the heavens,
thegns of Christ, proclaim and sing
that you should be the lady, by holy powers,
of the heavenly host and of all the earthly kinds
of orders under the heavens, and of hell-dwellers.
For you, alone of all mankind,
gloriously resolved, courageous in purpose,
that you would bring your maidenhead to the Measurer,
give it without sin. There has never come another such
among all mankind, any other bride adorned with rings,
who since with shining spirit has sent the bright gift
to heaven-home. For the Lord of Victory commanded
his high messenger to fly here
from his glorious majesty and swiftly make known to you
the abundance of might, that you should bear the Lord’s Son by a pure birth
as mercy to mankind, and you, Mary,
from henceforth would remain ever undefiled.
We have also heard this, what long ago
a truth-bearing prophet said of you
in ancient days, Isaiah:
that he was led to where he beheld
life’s dwelling-place in the eternal home.
The wise prophet gazed across all that country
until he saw a spot where a noble entrance-way
had been established. That immense door
was bound about with precious treasure,
fastened with wondrous clasps.
He was sure that no man
could ever, in all eternity,
lift up those bars so firmly fastened,
or unlock the barriers of the city gates;
until an angel of God unraveled the matter,
glad in thoughts, and spoke these words:
‘I can tell you what will come true:
that God himself, by the power of the Spirit,
intends to pass through these golden gates
at a time yet to come, the Father Almighty,
and to visit the earth through these fastened locks,
and after him they will then stand forever
closed, always and eternally,
so that no other, except the Saviour God,
will ever be able to unlock them again.’
Now it is fulfilled, that which the wise one
there beheld with his own eyes.
You are the door in the wall; through you the All-wielding Lord
once only journeyed out into this world,
and even as he found you, adorned with powers,
chaste and chosen, Almighty Christ,
so the Lord of Angels closed you behind him again
with his limb-key, the Giver of Life,
immaculate in every way.
Show forth to us now the grace which the angel,
God’s word-bearer Gabriel, brought to you.
O, this we city-dwellers pray:
that you reveal that comfort to the people,
your own Son. Then may we all
rejoice in hope, united in mind,
when we gaze at the baby upon your breast.
Intercede for us now, bold in your words,
that he may not allow us any longer
to go astray in this deadly valley,
but that he may bring us into his Father’s kingdom,
where we, free from sorrow, may afterwards
dwell in glory with the God of hosts.

The virtues outside a city gate (BL Cotton MS Cleopatra C VIII, f.31v)

This section of the poem offers two images of Mary, each extraordinary in its own way. Elsewhere among the Advent Lyrics, Mary is the subject of 'O virgo virginum' and of the dialogue which begins 'O Joseph'; the latter brings to life the tension and pain in the story of her child-bearing, dramatising the anguished thoughts of a couple who have had a world-changing miracle erupt in the middle of their marriage. That's an emotional, intimate conversation - the Incarnation as personal human drama.

This poem gives us a very different view of Mary. Here she is a queen, and on a cosmic scale - ruler of the forces of heaven, earth, and hell. God and Mary are described in language and tropes drawn from Anglo-Saxon heroic poetry: they are the brytta and his bryd, the generous ring-giving lord and his resolute queen. Described thus, they might easily be Hrothgar and Wealhtheow in Beowulf, or even Cnut and Emma. Like many another woman in Anglo-Saxon poetry, Mary is a bride 'adorned with rings' (beaga hroden), but this bride is far from a passive figure: she is courageous and determined (þristhycgende, 'steadfast in mind'). This poem frames her situation in a distinctive way, presenting it as if she has decided to undertake a diplomatic mission from earth to heaven. Though literally this decision is made when she accepts Gabriel's message to her, the poem describes it as if she set out to travel on a journey to unite herself with God:

Forþon þu þæt ana ealra monna
geþohtest þrymlice, þristhycgende,
þæt þu þinne mægðhad meotude brohtes,
sealdes butan synnum. Nan swylc ne cwom
ænig oþer ofer ealle men,
bryd beaga hroden, þe þa beorhtan lac
to heofonhame hlutre mode
siþþan sende.

For you, alone of all mankind,
gloriously resolved, courageous in purpose,
that you would bring your maidenhead to the Measurer,
give it without sin. There has never come another such
among all mankind, any other bride adorned with rings,
who since with shining spirit has sent the bright gift
to heaven-home.

This kind of mission calls to mind the idea found in Anglo-Saxon literature of a royal bride as a 'peace-weaver', whose marriage makes a truce between two warring tribes; in this case the tribes Mary unites are heaven and earth, which are brought together in peace through her actions. The beorhtan lac she brings to God as a wedding-gift (lac means both 'gift' and 'offering, sacrifice') probably refers to her virginity, but it would also be an apt epithet for Christ, and it's a reminder that gift-giving too was part of a medieval queen's royal duty - Wealhtheow, the most famous peace-weaving queen in Anglo-Saxon poetry, rewards Beowulf for his services to her people with generous gifts of arkenstone-like treasure.

This view of Mary as a resolute, powerful queen continues to the end of the poem, where she is asked to intercede þristum wordum 'with bold words', on behalf of mankind. All this is perhaps inspired by the antiphon's reference to Mary's 'royal race', which the poem skillfully translates into the imagery and vocabulary of Anglo-Saxon royal womanhood. But in its second half the poem turns away from the antiphon completely to reflect on the vision of Ezekiel of the gate through which only God can pass:

Wlat þa swa wisfæst witga geond þeodland
oþþæt he gestarode þær gestaþelad wæs
æþelic ingong. Eal wæs gebunden
deoran since duru ormæte,
wundurclommum bewriþen. Wende swiðe
þæt ænig elda æfre ne meahte9
swa fæstlice forescyttelsas
on ecnesse o inhebban,
oþþe ðæs ceasterhlides clustor onlucan...
Nu þæt is gefylled þæt se froda þa
mid eagum þær on wlatade.
þu eart þæt wealldor, þurh þe waldend frea
æne on þas eorðan ut siðade.

The wise prophet gazed across all that country
until he saw a spot where a noble entrance-way
had been established. That immense door
was bound about with precious treasure,
fastened with wondrous clasps.
He was sure that no man
could ever, in all eternity,
lift up those bars so firmly fastened,
or unlock the barriers of the city gates...
Now it is fulfilled, that which the wise one
there beheld with his own eyes.
You are the door in the wall; through you the All-wielding Lord
once only journeyed out into this world.

The reference is to Ezekiel 44 (though the vision is mistakenly attributed to Isaiah), and the gate is interpreted as an image for Mary and her unique role in salvation - her unique place in the universe. One interesting feature of this poem is that the imagery of the first half is characteristically Anglo-Saxon, that of the second half firmly Biblical; but they are seamlessly woven together, and support and enrich each other. The union between heaven and earth which is implicitly brought about by Mary's peace-weaving in the first section is here given a different, but parallel expression; now she is the point of intersection between heaven and earth, the door through whom - and only through whom - Christ enters the human world. Mary, the great and terrible queen, is also the 'door in the wall' which separates us from the vast world beyond our universe - beyond human imagination, and yet accessible to us 'when we gaze at the baby upon [her] breast'.

Though Biblical in origin, the idea of this immense door between the worlds is the kind of metaphor which feels more at home in fantasy and science fiction than anywhere else - perhaps that's the only place now where we might encounter such a portal to another dimension as is imagined here. Mary is the wealldor: the door in the back of the wardrobe, the looking-glass with another world behind, the 'magic casements, opening on the foam / Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn'.

Stairway to heaven (A Matter of Life and Death)

The idea of Mary as the 'gate to heaven' (porta caeli), and the 'ladder to heaven' (scala caeli) are both metaphors with an ancient history, but to modern ears they can be surprising. I've had students find the image as applied to Mary in this poem difficult to grasp and almost unpleasant, so far is it from the much safer, small-scale religious imagery most of us are familiar with; but it's all the better for that. If it's initially challenging, the more rewarding the process of trying to comprehend it. This is the kind of image which opens a door onto the vast ambition of medieval writing about Advent and the Incarnation, which makes the modern equivalent (squabbles about whether we're allowed to sing about kings in Christmas carols) look utterly banal. Ancient texts about Advent are big: their scope is cosmic, their imagination boundless. They talk about Christ as ruler of time, creator of the stars, mystic fulfilment of all the myriad forms of human desire - not just (although, of course, also) a little baby in a manger. They are the very opposite of an exclusive, domesticated, cosy Christmas; they call down the powers of the whole universe, and all the powers and images which poetry has to offer - from the Bible to Beowulf - to find expression for this unimaginable marvel.

The Anglo-Saxon O Antiphons: O Caelorum Domine, Lord of the Heavens

Anglo-Saxon ivory plaque of Christ in Majesty, 11th century (V&A)

Of all the poetry you might read in Advent, the great season of paradox and interpretative possibility, the very best choice may be some of the poetry inspired by the 'O Antiphons'. The last week of Advent has for centuries belonged to these ancient songs of appeal, which are sung each day at Vespers as Christmas draws closer. You can read about the history of the O Antiphons here; these texts are now best known via J. M. Neale's hymn 'O Come, O Come Emmanuel', but they have inspired poets since the earliest days of poetry in English. In the past I've posted several Middle English poems based on these texts - two poems and two carols - as well as the exquisite Anglo-Saxon poetic meditation inspired by the antiphons, which is known today as the Advent Lyrics or as Christ I.

This poem, which survives in the tenth-century Exeter Book, is incomplete (the beginning is lost), but as it stands it consists of twelve sections, each opening with the Old English equivalent of the antiphons' 'O': Eala. Some of these sections correspond with the seven antiphons which are today the best-known, but the first three (O Sapientia, O Adonai, O Radix Jesse) are missing, and there are several additions; diverse medieval practice encompassed a range of further antiphons no longer used today. In past years I've looked in detail at different sections of the poem, which you can find in the following posts:

O rex gentium (lines 1-17)
O clavis David (18-49)
O Jerusalem (51-70)
O virgo virginum (71-103)
O Oriens (104-129)
O Emmanuel (130-163)
O Joseph (164-213)
O rex pacifice (214-274)

Of the twelve there are still four I haven't looked at here, and this year I'll translate and explore two more of them. It's not entirely clear whether the Advent Lyrics are one poem or a sequence of poems, but either way they benefit from being read in stages like this, piece by piece - they are poems which ask you to read them slowly and meditate upon them. Each word, each metaphor, gives forth more meaning the more you dwell upon it. The O Antiphons are reflections on the idea of Christ under his different names and titles, a shifting succession of metaphors which attempt to express something, yet not all, of what he might be: the key, the root, the king, the sun, pure and complete wisdom. I've said in the past that I think the antiphons lend themselves particularly well to Anglo-Saxon poetry because this kind of allusive naming and renaming is exactly how much Old English poetry chooses to explore ideas (usually in the form of what's called 'variation') - it's an incremental, oblique progression of thought, where each name offers a new form of understanding or a different glancing light upon the thing described.

So these are texts rich in metaphor, alive with language and images of profound beauty; and yet they are something more, because in Christ, as nowhere else, metaphor collapses into truth. The antiphons suggest that in some mystical sense what is coming at Christmas is more truly the sun (or root, or king) than the sun itself. It is the external world which is the metaphor, Christ who is the reality. God is a poet who has written the world in metaphors which reveal his truth, his self; and our task - our pleasure - is to learn how to read them.

At the same time, there's something about the antiphons, and the poems inspired by them, which is not solely meditative - they are urgent and immediate and dramatic (in every sense of that word). They are to be sung as if in the voice of the whole church, the whole world, calling out in longing to its Lord. Each is a cry of desire, bearing a startling emotional intensity, and they encourage the reader to dwell with that desire - to feel it, explore it, attempt to understand its source. What is it we long for? What do we hope for, what do we seek? Sometimes the poems articulate what they are asking for - they appeal for light, or for freedom, or for strength - but at other times the desire is left undefined, and perhaps more powerful for being so. The poems do not promise that desire will or can be fulfilled; they long for and ask for fulfillment, but they don't possess it yet. They exist forever in a state of hope and uncertainty, acknowledging the world's great wound of need, and appealing for it to be healed.

Christ in Majesty, from a 10th-century English manuscript (Cambridge, Trinity MS. B 10 4, f. 16v)

So, here's the first of this year's translations: 'O caelorum domine'. This is the antiphon on which the poem is (rather loosely) based:

O caelorum domine,
qui cum patre sempiternus es una cum sancto spiritu,
audi tuos famulos,
veni ad salvandum nos, iam noli tardare.

O Lord of the heavens,
who with the Father and the Holy Spirit eternally lives,
hear your servants,
come to save us, do not delay.

This is so simple - what could be simpler? But look what the Anglo-Saxon poet made of it.

Eala þu halga heofona dryhten,
þu mid fæder þinne gefyrn wære
efenwesende in þam æþelan ham.
Næs ænig þa giet engel geworden,
ne þæs miclan mægenþrymmes nan
ðe in roderum up rice biwitigað,
þeodnes þryðgesteald ond his þegnunga,
þa þu ærest wære mid þone ecan frean
sylf settende þas sidan gesceaft,
brade brytengrundas. Bæm inc is gemæne
heahgæst hleofæst. We þe, hælend Crist,
þurh eaðmedu ealle biddað
þæt þu gehyre hæfta stefne,
þinra niedþiowa, nergende god,
hu we sind geswencte þurh ure sylfra gewill.
Habbað wræcmæcgas wergan gæstas,
hetlen helsceaþa, hearde genyrwad,
gebunden bealorapum. Is seo bot gelong
eall æt þe anum, ece dryhten.
Hreowcearigum help, þæt þin hidercyme
afrefre feasceafte, þeah we fæhþo wið þec
þurh firena lust gefremed hæbben.
Ara nu onbehtum ond usse yrmþa geþenc,
hu we tealtrigað tydran mode,
hwearfiað heanlice. Cym nu, hæleþa cyning,
ne lata to lange. Us is lissa þearf,
þæt þu us ahredde ond us hælogiefe
soðfæst sylle, þæt we siþþan forð
þa sellan þing symle moten
geþeon on þeode, þinne willan.

O holy Lord of the Heavens,
from of old you were with your Father
equal-being in the glorious home.
Not one angel had yet been made,
nor one of the mighty and majestic host
which guards the kingdom in the skies,
the splendour-dwelling of the Prince and his thegns,
when first you were with the eternal Lord
yourself establishing this vast creation,
the wide and spacious lands. One with you both
is the sheltering Spirit. Saviour Christ,
we all pray to you in humility
that you may hear the voice of the hostages,
of your captives, Liberating God,
how we are sore pressed by our own desires.
The cursed spirits, hate-filled hell-foes,
have cruelly confined the exiled race,
bound with bale-ropes. The remedy is
dependent entirely on you alone, eternal Lord.
Help the heart-sore, that your coming here
may comfort the wretched, though we
through our desire for wickedness have made a feud against you.
Have mercy now on your servants and think on our sorrows,
how we stumble on, weak at heart,
wandering hopelessly. Come now, king of men,
do not delay too long! We need kindness,
for you to rescue us and give us the true
grace of salvation, so that we may henceforth
always be able to do the better thing
to thrive among the people: your will.

There's a very sudden shift in this poem which occurs around the halfway point - a vertiginous plummet from heaven down to hell. The first half is all glory, eternity, stability, strength; the second half suffering, sorrow, constriction, frailty. By the swiftness of the transition, the poem enacts the descent it asks for: the entry of Christ, 'Lord of the heavens', into the world of exiles and captives. It reminds me of this image from an Anglo-Saxon Psalter of a gigantic Christ leaning down to pluck his people from the jaws of hell:

This is the kind of disparity of scale the poem evokes, with its contrast between the brade brytengrundas, 'the wide and spacious lands' of his dwelling-place, and the confining (genyrwad, i.e. 'narrowed' ) limits of ours.

The first half of the poem is stately and measured, with some elegant negatives:

Næs ænig þa giet engel geworden,
ne þæs miclan mægenþrymmes nan...

Not one angel had yet been made,
nor one of the mighty and majestic host...

There's language of stability and constancy: eternity, of course, and the establishment of the heavens, described as a þryðgesteald, a 'dwelling of glory' (gesteald suggests a fixed dwelling, stable and steadfast.) And we have a reminder too that there was almost no theological concept which Anglo-Saxon translators wouldn't render in English if they could; so notice here efenwesende, 'equal-being', as the Old English for 'consubstantial'!

But the second half is darker and sadder. The last lines are very moving, offering two affecting verbs to characterise what humans do in the world: we stumble and we wander (tealtrigað and hwearfiað). The verb tealtrian suggests tottering, stumbling, unsteady movement, while hwearfian is something more turbulent: 'to turn, change, roll about, revolve, wander'. I particularly associate hwearfian with The Seafarer, where it describes the movement of the soul which flies out of the body to roam restlessly across the earth, 'eager and greedy'. That's an image, and a poem, of ravenous desire - of 'hunger' and 'longing' and 'lust', which drive the speaker out onto the ocean, away from the safe and familiar to an existence which is painful, lonely, but better than the life he has known on land.

In the Advent poem, too, desire is a powerful force. We are in captivity, bound not just by the ropes of devils (bealorapas) but by our own desires: we sind geswencte þurh ure sylfra gewill. By our love of sins (firena lust) mankind has enslaved itself, and placed itself in 'feud' with God. If the O Antiphons take their power in part from the force of their desire for God, this poem suggests what happens when that potent desire is misdirected. The only cure is liss, one of those far-ranging Old English words which means many beautiful things: mercy, favour, grace, gentleness, kindness, joy. Alliteratively speaking, liss often collocates in Anglo-Saxon poetry with life and with love; but here it's with ne lata to lange, a cry of impatience: 'Do not delay too long.'

Ascension Day and the Death of Bede

Bede (Norwich Cathedral)

Today is the feast of the Ascension, and it is also the feast of Bede, Anglo-Saxon England's greatest scholar and historian. Bede died on the eve of Ascension Day in 735, which that year fell on 26 May. His feast is usually celebrated on 25 May (to avoid a clash with the feast of St Augustine of Canterbury, who also died on the 26th), which means that today, for once, it falls at the very same moment in the church's year as it did in 735. This is a lovely coincidence (or occasional mercy, rather) because the feast of the Ascension and the words of its liturgy were in Bede's mind, and on his lips, as he lay dying. We know this because a moving account of Bede's death was recorded by a monk named Cuthbert, a former pupil of Bede's and later abbot of Wearmouth-Jarrow. Cuthbert was present at Bede's deathbed, and this is how he describes his death.

For nearly a fortnight before the Feast of our Lord's Resurrection he was troubled by weakness and breathed with great difficulty, although he suffered little pain. Thenceforward until Ascension Day he remained cheerful and happy, giving thanks to God each hour day and night. He gave daily lessons to us his students, and spent the rest of the day in singing the psalms so far as his strength allowed. He passed the whole night in joyful prayer and thanksgiving to God, except when slumber overcame him; but directly he awoke, he continued to meditate on spiritual themes, and never failed to thank God with hands outstretched. I can truthfully affirm that I have never seen or heard of anyone who gave thanks so unceasingly to the living God as he.

O truly blessed man! He used to repeat the saying of the holy Apostle Paul, 'It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God', and many other sayings from holy scripture, and in this manner he used to arouse our souls by the consideration of our last hour. Being well-versed in our native songs, he described to us the dread departure of the soul from the body by a verse in our own tongue, which translated means: 'Before setting forth on that inevitable journey, none is wiser than the man who considers - before his soul departs hence - what good or evil he has done, and what judgement his soul will receive after its passing'.

This English poem is known as 'Bede's Death Song', and this is how it is preserved in Old English (in the Northumbrian dialect, probably unfamiliar even to those of us familiar with Old English!):

Fore them neidfaerae naenig uuiurthit
thoncsnotturra, than him tharf sie
to ymbhycggannae aer his hiniongae
huaet his gastae godaes aeththa yflaes
aefter deothdaege doemid uueorthae.

Cuthbert goes on:

To comfort both us and himself, he also used to sing antiphons, one of which is 'O King of glory, Lord of might, who on this day ascended in triumph above all heavens, do not leave us orphaned, but send to us the Spirit of truth, the promise of the Father. Alleluia'. And when he reached the words 'do not leave us orphaned', he broke into tears and wept much. An hour later he began to repeat what he had begun and so continued all day, so that we who heard him sorrowed and wept with him...

During these days, in addition to the daily instruction that he gave us and his recitation of the psalter, he was working to complete two books worthy of mention. For he translated the Gospel of Saint John into our own language for the benefit of the Church of God as far as the words 'but what are these among so many'. He also made some extracts from the works of Bishop Isidore... On the Tuesday before our Lord's Ascension his breathing became increasingly laboured, and his feet began to swell. Despite this he continued cheerfully to teach and dictate all day, saying from time to time, 'Learn quickly. I do not know how long I can continue, for my Lord may call me in a short while.' It seemed to us that he might well be aware of the time of his departure, and he spent that night without sleeping, giving thanks to God.

When dawn broke on Wednesday, he told us to write diligently what we had begun, and we did this until Terce. After Terce we walked in procession with the relics of the saints as the custom of the day required, but one of us remained with him, who said, 'There is still one chapter missing in the book that you have been dictating; but it seems hard that I should trouble you any further.' 'It is no trouble,' he answered: 'Take your pen and sharpen it, and write quickly.' And he did so.

But at None he said to me, 'I have a few articles of value in my casket, such as pepper, linen and incense. Run quickly and fetch the priests of the monastery, so that I may distribute among them the gifts that God has given me.' In great distress I did as he bid me. And when they arrived, he spoke to each of them in turn, requesting and reminding them diligently to offer Masses and prayers for him. They readily promised to do so, and all were sad and wept, grieving above all else at his statement that they must not expect to see his face much longer in this world. But they were heartened when he said, 'If it be the will of my Maker, the time has come when I shall be freed from the body and return to Him who created me out of nothing when I had no being. I have had a long life, and the merciful Judge has ordered it graciously. The time of my departure is at hand, and my soul longs to see Christ my King in His beauty.'

He also told us many other edifying things, and passed his last day happily until evening. Then the same lad, named Wilbert, said again: 'Dear master, there is one sentence still unfinished.' 'Very well,' he replied: 'write it down.' After a short while the lad said, 'Now it is finished.' 'You have spoken truly,' he replied: 'It is well finished. Now raise my head in your hands, for it would give me great joy to sit facing the holy place where I used to pray, so that I may sit and call on my Father.' And thus, on the floor of his cell, he chanted 'Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit' to its ending, and breathed his last.

We may confidently believe that as he had devoted himself with such ardour to the praises of God here on earth, his soul was borne by the angels to the longed-for joys of Heaven. And all who saw and heard of the death of our father Bede declared that they had never known anyone end his days in such deep devotion and peace.

Translated in A History of the English Church and People, trans. Leo Sherley-Price, rev. R. E. Latham (London, 1974), pp. 18-20 (paragraphs added).

The antiphon at which Bede broke down in tears is 'O rex gloriae', sung on the feast of the Ascension, which alludes to Christ's words to his disciples: 'If ye love me, keep my commandments. And I will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you for ever; even the Spirit of truth... I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.'



The English translation of John's Gospel which Bede was working on at his death has not survived, and nor have any of Bede's other English writings (it's not clear whether his 'Death Song' was of his own composition, or if he is quoting a poem he knew). But a century or so after Bede's death, an Anglo-Saxon poet composed a poem on the Ascension which must be one of the greatest poems ever written on that subject. I quoted it at length here, but this is my favourite part:

Swa se fæla fugel flyges cunnode;
hwilum engla eard up gesohte,
modig meahtum strang, þone maran ham,
hwilum he to eorþan eft gestylde,
þurh gæstes giefe grundsceat sohte,
wende to worulde. Bi þon se witga song:
'He wæs upp hafen engla fæðmum
in his þa miclan meahta spede,
heah ond halig, ofer heofona þrym.'
...Wæs se siexta hlyp,
haliges hyhtplega, þa he to heofonum astag
on his ealdcyððe. þa wæs engla þreat
on þa halgan tid hleahtre bliþe
wynnum geworden. Gesawan wuldres þrym,
æþelinga ord, eðles neosan,
beorhtra bolda. þa wearð burgwarum
eadgum ece gefea æþelinges plega.

So the beautiful bird ventured into flight.
Now he sought the home of the angels,
that glorious country, bold and strong in might;
now he swung back to earth again,
sought the ground by grace of the Spirit,
returned to the world. Of this the prophet sang:
'He was lifted up in the arms of angels
in the great abundance of his powers,
high and holy, above the glory of the heavens.'
...The sixth leap,
the Holy One's hope-play, was when he ascended to heaven
into his former home. Then the throng of angels
in that holy tide was made merry with laughter,
rapt with joy. They saw the glory of majesty,
first of princes, seek out his homeland,
the bright mansions. After that the blessed city-dwellers
endlessly delighted in the Prince's play.

In Europe, the Ascension is the feast of summer skies. With Ælfric, who encourages us to 'behold the sun', we stand gazing into the heavens, which at this time of year are (sometimes) a glorious, fathomless blue; and like Christ at the Ascension, the sun climbs higher and higher in the sky as the solstice draws near. Birds, back for the summer, wheel and soar through the air. This week a flock of swifts have returned to the street where I live; in the long light evenings they swoop and swing through the sky, quicker than thought, sheer energy and life and unfettered freedom. That's how this Anglo-Saxon poet imagined Christ.

The Anglo-Saxon O Antiphons: O Rex Pacifice, O thou true and thou peaceful one

Christ in glory (BL Cotton Vespasian A VIII, f. 2v, 10th century, Winchester)

The antiphon for 20 December is 'O clavis David', and you can read the beautiful Old English poetic version of that antiphon here; it speaks of Christ as se þe locan healdeð, lif ontyneð, 'he who guards the locks, who opens life', who will 'become for us a source of strength in spirit, and enfold our feeble knowledge in splendour'. But, as I promised in my last post, here's one of the sections of the same poem inspired by a less commonly-used antiphon: this is based on 'O rex pacifice' (lines 214-274 of the Old English poem):

Eala þu soða ond þu sibsuma
ealra cyninga cyning, Crist ælmihtig,
hu þu ær wære eallum geworden
worulde þrymmum mid þinne wuldorfæder
cild acenned þurh his cræft ond meaht!
Nis ænig nu eorl under lyfte,
secg searoþoncol, to þæs swiðe gleaw
þe þæt asecgan mæge sundbuendum,
areccan mid ryhte, hu þe rodera weard
æt frymðe genom him to freobearne.
þæt wæs þara þinga þe her þeoda cynn
gefrugnen mid folcum æt fruman ærest
geworden under wolcnum, þæt witig god,
lifes ordfruma, leoht ond þystro
gedælde dryhtlice, ond him wæs domes geweald,
ond þa wisan abead weoroda ealdor:
"Nu sie geworden forþ a to widan feore
leoht, lixende gefea, lifgendra gehwam
þe in cneorissum cende weorðen."
Ond þa sona gelomp, þa hit swa sceolde,
leoma leohtade leoda mægþum,
torht mid tunglum, æfter þon tida bigong.
Sylfa sette þæt þu sunu wære
efeneardigende mid þinne engan frean
ærþon oht þisses æfre gewurde.
þu eart seo snyttro þe þas sidan gesceaft
mid þi waldende worhtes ealle.

Forþon nis ænig þæs horsc, ne þæs hygecræftig,
þe þin fromcyn mæge fira bearnum
sweotule geseþan. Cum, nu, sigores weard,
meotod moncynnes, ond þine miltse her
arfæst ywe! Us is eallum neod
þæt we þin medrencynn motan cunnan,
ryhtgeryno, nu we areccan ne mægon
þæt fædrencynn fier owihte.
þu þisne middangeard milde geblissa
þurh ðinne hercyme, hælende Crist,
ond þa gyldnan geatu, þe in geardagum
ful longe ær bilocen stodan,
heofona heahfrea, hat ontynan,
ond usic þonne gesece þurh þin sylfes gong
eaðmod to eorþan. Us is þinra arna þearf!
Hafað se awyrgda wulf tostenced,
deor dædscua, dryhten, þin eowde,
wide towrecene, þæt ðu, waldend, ær
blode gebohtes, þæt se bealofulla
hyneð heardlice, ond him on hæft nimeð
ofer usse nioda lust. Forþon we, nergend, þe
biddað geornlice breostgehygdum
þæt þu hrædlice helpe gefremme
wergum wreccan, þæt se wites bona
in helle grund hean gedreose,
ond þin hondgeweorc, hæleþa scyppend,
mote arisan ond on ryht cuman
to þam upcundan æþelan rice,
þonan us ær þurh synlust se swearta gæst
forteah ond fortylde, þæt we, tires wone,
a butan ende sculon ermþu dreogan,
butan þu usic þon ofostlicor, ece dryhten,
æt þam leodsceaþan, lifgende god,
helm alwihta, hreddan wille.


O thou true and thou peaceful one,
king of all kings, almighty Christ,
how you existed before all the world's glory
was made, with your heavenly Father,
conceived as a child through his skill and power!
There is now no man under the sky,
no person clever in thought, so very wise
that he can tell the sea-bound world's dwellers,
rightly relate how the guardian of the heavens
in the beginning took you as his noble son.
That was, of the things which the tribes of men
among peoples here have heard of, the very first
worked beneath the sky: that the wise God,
life's source, light and darkness
divinely parted, and with him was the power.
And the Lord of hosts commanded this:
"Now let there be, from henceforth until eternity,
light, luminous joy to all living things
which will be born in their generations."
And at once it was, when it had to be so:
light lightened the tribes of peoples,
brilliant among the stars, in the course of time.
He himself ordained that you, the Son,
were dwelling as an equal with your solitary Lord
before any of this had ever been done.
You are the wisdom who created
all this wide world with your Ruler.

And so there is none so sharp-witted
nor so skillful in mind that he can
clearly explain to the children of men
your first beginning. Come now, Lord of victories,
Measurer of mankind, and here, steadfast in grace,
manifest your mercy! In us all there is a longing
that we may understand your mother's origins,
the true mystery, since we cannot rightly
any further follow your father's origins.
In mercy gladden this world
by your advent, Saviour Christ,
and the golden gates, which in days gone by
so long stood locked,
order to be opened, heaven's high Lord,
and seek us out by your own coming
humbly to earth. We need your mercy!
The accursed wolf, the beast who walks in darkness,
has destroyed your flock, Lord,
scattered abroad those you, Ruler, once
bought with blood, whom the hate-filled foe
cruelly persecutes and takes into captivity,
against our urgent longing. So we, Saviour,
pray eagerly in the thoughts of our hearts
that you swiftly bring help
to weary exiles, that the tormenting slayer
may be cast low into the depths of hell
and your handiwork, Creator of mankind,
may rise and come by right
to the noble kingdom above,
from which the dark spirit once seduced
and drew us by desire for sin, so that we,
bereft of glory, must for ever endure misery without end,
unless you, with greatest swiftness, everlasting Lord,
from the destroyer of men, living God,
Guardian of all creatures, choose to save us.

God creating the sun, moon and stars (BL Cotton Claudius B IV, f. 3, 11th century, Canterbury)

This follows on from one of the most memorable sections in this remarkable poem: a dialogue between Mary and Joseph, in which they discuss Mary's miraculous pregnancy and its consequences for them both. In that anguished exchange, Joseph describes his fears for Mary, while she worries that she will lose his love; then Mary describes her encounter with the angel, telling how she learned that she would become the mother of God's child. In that section, the opening 'O' is more like a cry of distress than anything else: Mary begins by saying 'Eala Joseph min, Jacobes bearn', 'O my Joseph, son of Jacob...' If you were one of an Anglo-Saxon audience reading or listening to this poem, you would just have seen the most human side of the story of the incarnation: a married couple worrying about how to cope with an unimaginable change in their lives and their relationship.

This moving and personal dialogue is followed by something very different. The story is written now on a cosmic scale; the section based on 'O rex pacifice' addresses Christ as king and ruler, a being born before all the worlds, whose nature is far beyond human understanding. Having just explored Christ's maternal origins (his medrencynn) in the preceding section, this poem now emphasises the impossibility of tracing his paternal origins (his fædrencynn) back through the vastness of time and space. It does what it can, by going back to the beginning of creation and the first command:

Nu sie geworden forþ a to widan feore
leoht, lixende gefea, lifgendra gehwam.

Now let there be, from henceforth until eternity,
light, luminous joy to all living things...

I love how the poet keeps you waiting for the word 'light' here, holding it over to the end of the phrase, and then producing a threefold alliteration on leoht, lixende, lifgendra; it sounds so beautiful spoken aloud. The beginning of light is the beginning of time, æfter þon tida bigong – and further back than that, no one can go. This poem takes pleasure in juxtaposing the limitations of human knowledge against the vastness of God's cræft ond meaht: several times we hear that no one is clever enough – searoþoncol, horsc, or hygecræftig enough – to fully understand this mystery. Here we are sea-dwellers (sundbuend), earth-bound under the sky; but the golden gates which bar the way to the heavens can be opened:

ond þin hondgeweorc, hæleþa scyppend,
mote arisan ond on ryht cuman
to þam upcundan æþelan rice.

and your handiwork, Creator of mankind,
may rise and come by right
to the noble kingdom on high.

God creating the world (BL Royal 1 E VII, f. 1v, 11th century, Canterbury)